"Come, Percy, don't be unreasonable. I—"

"When did he go—how long ago?" exclaimed the boy, half frantic.

"Percy, you really—"

"How long ago?"

"It is more than an hour since—"

Percy waited to hear no more; he dashed down the stairs and shouted to Walker.

"Did you see Jeffreys go? Which way did he go?"

"I didn't see—"

"Come and help me look for him, he's sure to be about. Tell Appleby, do you hear? Raby, I say," he exclaimed, as his cousin appeared in the hall, "Jeff's been kicked out an hour ago! I'm going to find him!" and the poor lad, with a heart almost bursting, flung open the door and rushed out into the street.

Alas! it was a fool's errand, and he knew it. Still, he could not endure to do nothing.

After two weary hours he gave it up, and returned home dispirited and furious. Walker and Appleby had taken much less time to appreciate the uselessness of the search, and had returned an hour ago from a perfunctory walk round one or two neighbouring streets.

Our young Achilles, terrible in his wrath, would see no one, not even his mother, not even Raby. Once or twice that evening they heard the front door slam, and knew he once more was on the look-out. Mrs Rimbolt, alarmed at the storm which she had raised, already repented of her haste, and telegraphed to Mr Rimbolt to come to London.

Raby, bewildered and miserable, shut herself up in her room and was seen by no one. It was a wretched night for everybody; and when next morning Mrs Rimbolt, sitting down to breakfast, was met with the news that neither Master Percy nor Miss Raby wanted breakfast, she began to feel that the affair was being overdone.

When Mr Rimbolt arrived, though he concealed his feelings better, he was perhaps the most mortified of all at the wretched misadventure which during his absence had turned Jeffreys adrift beyond recall. He had known his secretary's secret, and had held it sacred even from his wife. And watching Jeffreys' brave struggle to live down his bad name, he had grown to respect and even admire him, and to feel a personal interest in the ultimate success of his effort. Now, a miserable accident, which, had he been at home, could have been prevented by a word, had wrecked the work and the hopes of years, and put beyond Mr Rimbolt's power all further chance of helping it on.

About a week after Mr Rimbolt's return, when all but Percy were beginning to settle down again into a semblance of their old order of things, Raby knocked at her uncle's door and inquired if he was busy. She looked happier than he had seen her since his return. The reason was easy to guess. The post had brought her a letter from her father.

"I thought you would like to see it," said she. "He has got leave at last, and expects to be home at the end of September. Will you read the letter?" added she, colouring; "there's something else in it I should like you to see."

The letter was chiefly about the prospects of coming home. Towards the close Lieutenant-Colonel Atherton (for he had got promotion) wrote:

"You ask me to tell you about poor Forrester and his family."

"He had no wife alive, and when he died did not know what had become of his only son. The boy was at school in England—Bolsover School—and met with an accident, caused, it is said, by the spite of a schoolfellow, which nearly killed him, and wholly crippled him. He was taken home to his grandmother's, but after she died he disappeared, and poor Forrester had been unable to hear anything about him. It is a sad story. I promised Forrester when I got home I would do what I could to find the boy and take care of him. You will help, won't you?"

Raby watched her uncle as he read the passage, and then asked,—

"I asked father to tell me something about the Forresters, uncle, because some one—it was Mr Scarfe—had told me that he believed Captain Forrester was the father of an old schoolfellow of his at Bolsover who had a bad accident."

"Is that all he told you?" asked her uncle.

"No," said Raby, flushing; "he told me that Mr Jeffreys had been the cause of the accident."

"That was so," said Mr Rimbolt. "Sit down, child, and I'll tell you all about it."

And her uncle told her what he had heard from Mr Frampton, and what Jeffreys had suffered in consequence; how he had struggled to atone for the past, and what hopes had been his as to the future. Raby's face glowed more and more as she listened. It was a different soldier's tale from what she was used to; but still it moved her pity and sympathy strangely.

"It's a sad story, as your father says," concluded Mr Rimbolt; "but the sadness does not all belong to young Forrester."

Raby's eyes sparkled.

"No, indeed," said she; "it is like shipwreck within sight of the harbour."

"We can only hope there may be some hand to save him even from these depths," said Mr Rimbolt; "for, from what I know of Jeffreys, he will find it hard now to keep his head above water. Of course, Raby, I have only told you this because you have heard the story from another point of view which does poor Jeffreys injustice."

"I am so grateful to you," said the girl.

Mr Rimbolt let her go without saying more. Even the man of books had eyes that could see; and Raby's face during this interview had told a tale of something more than casual sympathy.

The season dragged on, and nothing occurred to mend matters at Clarges Street. Percy moped and could settle down to nothing. He spurned his books, he neglected his horse, and gave up the river entirely. It was vain to reason or expostulate with him, and after a couple of months his parents marked with anxiety that the boy was really ill. Yet nothing would induce him to quit London. Even his father's offer to take him abroad for a few weeks did not tempt him.

Raby herself made the final appeal the day before they started.

"Percy, dear, won't you come for my sake?" said she.

"If I came for anybody I would for you," replied he, "but I can't."

"But I had so looked forward to you seeing father."

"I'll see him as soon as he gets to town."

"It will spoil my pleasure so much," said she. "I shall be miserable thinking of you."

"You're an awful brick, Raby; but don't bother about me. You'd all be ever so much more miserable if I came, and so should I."

"But what good can it do?" pleaded his cousin.

"I don't know—he might turn up. I might find him after all. If it hadn't been for your father coming, Raby—I'd have begged you to stay too. He'd be more likely to come if he knew you were here."

Raby flushed. Between Percy and his cousin there was no hypocrisy.

"Oh, Percy," she said, "do you want to make me fifty times more miserable?" And she gave up further attempt to move him.

The travellers were away a month, during which time Percy kept his lonely vigil at Clarges Street. As the reader knows, it was useless. Jeffreys was never near the place, and the lad, watching day after day, began slowly to lose hope.

But that month's experience was not wholly wasted. Memories of bygone talks with his friend, of good advice given, and quiet example unheeded at the time, crowded in on Percy's memory now; adding to his sense of loss, certainly, but reminding him that there was something else to be done than mope and fret.

What would Jeffreys have had him do? he often asked himself; and the answer was plain and direct—work. That had always been Jeffreys' cure for everything. That is what he would have done himself, and that is what Percy, chastened by his loss, made up his mind to now.

He got out his old books and his tools, and doggedly took up the work where he had left it. It was uphill, cheerless work, but he was better for it, and the memory of his lost friend became none the less dear for the relief it brought him.

Only one incident marked his solitary month at Clarges Street—that was a visit from Scarfe about a fortnight after the travellers had gone. Percy had a very shrewd guess, although he had never heard it in so many words, who was responsible for Jeffreys' disgrace and dismissal; and that being so, it is not to be wondered at that his welcome of the visitor was not very cordial.

"Look here," said he, as Scarfe entered, and making no movement to return his greeting, "is it true you were the fellow who told mother about Jeff, and had him sent away from here?"

"My dear Percy—"

"I'm not your dear Percy! Did you tell mother that story about Jeffreys?"

"Why, Percy, you don't mean to say—"

"Shut up! You can Yes or No, can't you?"

"I did my duty, and it's a mercy you're all rid of him!" said Scarfe, losing temper at being thus browbeaten by a boy of Percy's age.

"Very well, you can go! You're a cad, and you're not wanted here!" said Percy.

"You young prig!" began the visitor; but Percy stopped him.

"Look here," said he, "if you want to fight, say so, and come on! If you don't, go! You're a cad!"

Scarfe was staggered by this outbreak; he never suspected the boy had it in him. He tried to turn the matter off with a laugh.

"Come, don't be a muff, Percy! You and I are old friends—"

"We're not; we're enemies!"

"You mean to say," said Scarfe, with a snarl, "you're going to throw me up for the sake of a—"

"Don't say a word about Jeff!" said Percy, white-hot, and springing to his feet; "if you do I'll have you pitched neck and crop into the street! Hook it! No one asked you here, and you're not wanted!"

"I came to see your mother," said Scarfe. "I can't congratulate you, Percy, on your hospitality, but I can hope you'll be better next time I come."

Percy went out after him, and called down the staircase to Walker, "Walker, give Mr Scarfe a glass of wine and some grub before he goes."

The taunt about hospitality had stung him, and this was how he relieved his conscience on that point.

Scarfe was not the only visitor Percy had. The evening before the travellers were expected home Walker announced that a gentleman had called inquiring for Mr Rimbolt, but hearing he was from home, desired to speak with his son. Percy, ready to clutch at any straw of hope, and jumping at once to the conclusion that the only business on which any one could possibly call at the house was about Jeffreys, told Walker to show the gentleman up.

He was a dark, handsome man, with a few streaks of grey in his hair, and a keen, cold look in his eye which Percy mistrusted.

"We're old friends, I fancy," said he, nodding to the boy as he entered. "At least, I fancy I saw you sixteen or seventeen years ago."

"I must have been jolly young then," said Percy.

"You were—about a week. Your father and I were college friends. I gave him up as a deserter when he married, and might have cut his acquaintance altogether, only as he happened to marry my sister, I was bound to keep up appearances and come and inspect my nephew when he made his appearance."

"You're my Uncle Halgrove, then? I thought you were dead."

"I sympathise keenly with your disappointment. I am alive and well, and hoped to find my brother-in-law at home."

"They'll be back to-morrow," said Percy.

"Have you dined, my boy?"

"No, not yet."

"That's well; they can lay for two. I'll sleep here to-night."

Percy scrutinised his uncle critically.

"Look here, uncle," he said, rather nervously, "it may be all right, you know, and I'd be awfully sorry not to be civil. But I never saw you before, and didn't know you were alive. So I think you'd better perhaps stay at your hotel to-night and come to-morrow, when they all come home. Do you mind?"

"Mind?" said Mr Halgrove. "I'm delighted if you are. You prefer solitude, so do I. Or perhaps you've been a naughty boy, and are left behind for your sins."

"I've stayed behind because I didn't want to go," said Percy.

"Well," said Mr Halgrove, "I am sure your relatives are the sufferers by your decision. By the way, one of the things I came to see your father about was to ask him to help me out of a money difficulty. I've just landed from America, and my remittances are not here to meet me. Consequently I am in the ridiculous position of not being able to pay for the luxury of an hotel. But I understand there are nice clean railway-arches at Victoria, and that crusts are frequently to be met with in the gutters if one keeps his eye open."

Percy was perplexed.

"Do you mean you're really hard up?" said he, "because if you really are, of course you'd better put up here."

"But I may be a fraud, you know. I may rob the house and murder you in your bed," said his uncle, "and that would be a pity."

"I'll take my chance of that," said Percy. And so it happened that the house in Clarges Street had a visitor on the last night of Percy's lonely month. The boy and his uncle began the evening with a great deal of suspicion and mutual aversion. But it wore off as the hours passed. Mr Halgrove had a fund of stories to tell, and the boy was a good listener; and when at last they adjourned to bed they were on friendly terms.

Percy, however, took the precaution to take away the front-door key, so that the visitor could not abscond from the house during the night without his knowledge. The precaution was unnecessary. Mr Halgrove rang his bell for shaving water at ten next morning with the confidence of one who had lived in the house all his life. A few hours later the travellers arrived in London.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

HIDE AND SEEK.

Percy was in considerable difficulty as to the ceremonies to be observed in welcoming his family home. For he had no notion of leaving the house in possession of his suspicious uncle while he went down to the station. Nor could he bear the idea of not being at the station to meet them. So he compromised matters by taking his complaisant relative with him, much to that gentleman's amusement.

It relieved him considerably, when the train arrived, to see that his mother recognised the stranger, though not effusively, as her veritable brother. He was thus able to devote his whole attention to his other uncle, whom he found considerably more interesting.

Colonel Atherton arrived in high spirits, like a schoolboy home for a holiday. He struck up an alliance with Percy at once, and insisted on taking him off to the apartments near Regent's Park which were to be his and Raby's home for the next few months. As he was saying good-bye to the Rimbolts, he caught sight for the first time of Mr Halgrove.

"Why, bless me, is that you, Halgrove?" he said. "Why, I've worn mourning for you, my boy. This is a bit of sharp practice. Where did you spring from?"

"Perhaps I'm a ghost, after all. So many people have told me lately I'm dead, that I begin to believe it."

"Never fear. If you were a ghost we should be able to see through you— that's more than anybody ever did with Halgrove, eh, Rimbolt?"

"Halgrove is coming home with us," said Mr Rimbolt, "so when you and Raby come to-morrow we can talk over old times."

"Who would have thought of him turning up?" said the colonel to his daughter as with Percy they drove off in their cab. "Why, I've not heard of him since that affair of poor Jeffreys, and—"

"Jeffreys!" exclaimed Percy, with a suddenness that startled the gallant officer; "did you say Jeffreys?"

"Yes, what about him? It was long before your time—a dozen or fourteen years ago."

"Why, he couldn't have been more than eight then; what happened to him, uncle, I say?"

The boy asked his question so eagerly and anxiously that it was evident it was not a case of idle curiosity.

"You must be meaning the son; I'm talking about the father. Wait till we get home, my boy, and you shall hear."

It required all Percy's patience to wait. The very mention of his friend's name had excited him. It never occurred to him there were hundreds of Jeffreys in the world, and that his uncle and he might be interested in quite different persons. For him there was but one Jeffreys in the universe, and he jumped at any straw of hope of finding him.

The reader knows all Colonel Atherton was able to tell Percy and Raby— for Raby was not an uninterested listener—of the story of Mr Halgrove's partner. Percy in turn told what he knew of his Jeffreys; and putting the two stories together, it seemed pretty clear it was a history of parent and son.

Early next morning the colonel was at Clarges Street, seated in the study with his two old college friends.

"Well," said he, "here's a case of we three meeting again with a vengeance. And what have you been up to, Halgrove, these twenty years? No good, I'll be bound."

"I have at least managed to keep clear of matrimony," said Mr Halgrove, "which is more than either of you virtuous family men can say."

"Ah, well," said the colonel, with a sigh, "that's not all misfortune— witness my sweet daughter and Rimbolt's fine boy. What have you got to show against that?"

"Nothing, I confess."

"By the way, though, haven't you? The last I heard of you was in the papers; a record of a generous act on your part. You had adopted the son of an unfortunate partner of yours who had died. Is he still with you?"

"No," said Mr Halgrove; "that turned out an unfortunate speculation in every way."

"Did the boy bolt?"

"Not exactly. I sent him to a first-rate school, where he distinguished himself in a way of his own by an act of homicide."

"What?" exclaimed the colonel; and Mr Rimbolt suddenly became attentive.

"Yes. He either quite or very nearly did for a young schoolfellow in a fit of the tantrums, and found it convenient to quit the place rather abruptly."

"What was the name of the school?" asked Mr Rimbolt quietly.

"Bolsover, in —shire."

"Singular!" exclaimed the colonel. "I had a chum in India who had a boy at that very school."

Here the speaker became aware of a sharp kick under the table and a significant look from Mr Rimbolt. The old soldier was used to obey the word of command at a moment's notice and pulled up now.

"I should think a thing like that would be very bad for the school," said Mr Rimbolt quietly, and in an off-hand way.

"Fatal," said Mr Halgrove. "I believe Bolsover went to the dogs after it."

"And so you had—you had young—what was his name?"

"Jeffreys."

"Young Jeffreys on your hands?"

"Scarcely. We parted company. As I told him, I never was particular, but a man must draw the line somewhere, and I drew it at manslaughter."

"What became of him?"

"Well, before I went abroad he was usher in a dame school in York. He may be there still, unless by this time all his pupils are devoured."

"Very unpleasant business for you," said Mr Rimbolt.

"And," asked the colonel, with a wink at his brother-in-law, "did he, like the prodigal, take his portion of goods with him? I mean what his father left him."

Mr Halgrove for a moment raised his brows uncomfortably.

"No," said he; "Benjamin Jeffreys was an eccentric man, and invested his money in eccentric securities. His son's money, like the lad himself, went to the dogs, and left me decidedly out of pocket by my term of guardianship. I really advise neither of you to indulge your philanthropy in adopting somebody else's sons; it doesn't pay."

"Yours certainly was not a lucky experience," said Mr Rimbolt; "however, when you were last heard of, Fame reported that you could afford to drop a little."

"Fama volat, and so does money. No one could repeat the libel now with truth. The fact is, this visit to an old college friend is a trifle interested. My journey to the West has turned out badly, and, greatly as I should like it, I could not offer to lend either of you fellows a hundred pounds at this present moment. So I hope you won't ask me."

The talk here took a financial turn, and Mrs Rimbolt presently joining the party, she and her brother were left to themselves while Mr Rimbolt and the colonel took a short stroll.

Mr Rimbolt took the opportunity of telling his brother-in-law what he knew, not only of Jeffreys but of young Forrester, and the colonel told him of his obligation to find if possible the child of his dead companion-in-arms.

"It's a mixed-up business altogether," said he, "and from all I can judge something of a family matter. My little girl, Rimbolt, whom you've been so good to, seems to me more interested in this librarian of yours than she would like any one to suspect—eh?"

"I have fancied so," said Mr Rimbolt, "sometimes."

"Pleasant to come home and find everybody in the dumps about some person one has never seen. The sooner the rascal comes to light, the better for everybody and for my holiday. By the way, Rimbolt, that struck me as fishy about Jeffreys' money, didn't it you?"

"It did. I had never heard anything about Halgrove having a partner."

"I had. He went out of his mind and died by his own hand; but from what I knew of Halgrove then, I should say it was he who had a weakness for eccentric speculations. However, the money's gone; so it's all the same for young Jeffreys."

Raby found her life at Regent's Park very different from that either at Wildtree or Clarges Street. Colonel Atherton was a man who hated ceremony of any kind, and had a great idea of letting everybody do as they chose. Raby consequently found herself her own mistress in a way she had never experienced before. It was not altogether a delightful sensation; for though she loved her father's companionship and the care of looking after his wants, she often felt the time hang heavy on her hands.

The colonel had a number of old friends to look up, and a great deal of business to do; and Raby, used to company of some sort, found his absences lonely. Percy was often at the house, but he in his present dismal mood was poor company. His one topic was Jeffreys; and that to Raby was the last topic on which she felt drawn to talk to any one.

When, therefore, a neighbour suggested to her one day to give an hour or two a week to visiting the poor of the district, Raby hailed the proposal gladly. It was work she had been used to at Wildtree, and to which she had already had yearnings in London, though Mrs Rimbolt had opposed it.

"Mind? Not a bit," said her father, when she broached the subject to him, "as long as you don't get small-pox or get into mischief. I should like to be a denizen of a slum myself, for the pleasure of getting a visit from you."

And so the girl began her work of charity, spending generally an hour a day, under the direction of her friend, in some of the closely packed alleys near. As she made a point of being home always to welcome her father in the afternoon, her visits were generally paid early in the day, when the men would be away at work and when the chief claimants on her help and pity would be the poor women and children left behind, with sometimes a sick or crippled man unable to help himself. It was often sad, often depressing work. But the brave girl with a heart full of love faced it gladly, and felt herself the happier for it day by day.

It was on an afternoon shortly after this new work had been begun that she was overtaken by a sudden October squall as she was hurrying back through Regent's Park towards home. The morning had been fine, and she had neither cloak nor umbrella. No cab was within sight; and there was nothing for it but to stand up under a tree till the rain stopped, or walk boldly through it. She was just debating this question with herself when she became aware of an umbrella over her, and a voice at her side saying,—

"This is most fortunate. Miss Atherton. Who would have thought of meeting you here?"

It was Scarfe; and Raby would sooner have met any one else in the world.

"Thank you," said she, "I shall be quite sheltered under this tree. Don't let me detain you."

"Nonsense!" said he; "you know I am delighted to be detained so pleasantly. Won't you come farther under the trees?"

"No, I must be home, thank you. I don't want to be late."

But just then the rain came down in such a deluge that she had nothing for it but to give in and stand up for shelter.

"It seems ages since we met," began Scarfe.

Raby had a vivid enough recollection of that evening in the conservatory, but did not contradict him.

"I called at Clarges Street last month, hoping to see you, but you were away."

"Yes, we were abroad—all but Percy."

"I saw Percy. Poor fellow, he did not seem himself at all. Miss Atherton, you must not blame me if I remind you of something we were talking about when I last saw you—"

"Please don't, Mr Scarfe; I have no wish to refer to it."

"But I must. Do you know, Raby, I have thought of no one but you ever since?"

Raby said nothing, and wished the rain would stop.

"Is it too much to ask whether, perhaps once or twice, you have thought of me?"

Raby began to get angry. Was it not cowardly to get her here at a disadvantage and begin to talk to her about what she had no wish to hear?

"Yes—I have thought once or twice of you," she said.

"How good of you, Raby!" said he, trying to take her hand. "May I hope it was with something more than indifference—with love?"

"Certainly not," said she, drawing back her hand, and, in spite of the rain, starting to walk.

Bitterly crestfallen, he walked at her side and held his umbrella over her.

"You are harsh with me," said he reproachfully.

"I am sorry. You should not have provoked me. I asked you not to talk about it."

"I am afraid, Miss Atherton," said he, "some one has been prejudicing you against me. Percy, perhaps, has been talking about me."

Raby walked on without replying.

"Percy is very angry with me for doing what it was only my duty to do as his friend—and yours. He misunderstands me, and, I fear, so do you."

"I do not misunderstand you at all," said Raby boldly.

"But I am afraid you do not thank me."

"No. I have nothing to thank you for."

"I did my duty, at any rate. I stated the truth, and nothing more, and should have been wrong to allow things to go on without at least trying, for the sake of those for whom I cared, and still care, Miss Atherton, to set them right. Do I understand you blame me for that?"

"Mr Scarfe, you have done a cruel thing to one who never did you harm— and I see nothing to admire in it."

Scarfe sneered.

"Jeffreys is fortunate in his champion. Perhaps, at least, Miss Atherton, you will do me the credit of remembering that on one occasion your hero owed his life to me. I hope that, too, was not cowardly or cruel."

"If he had known the ruin you had in store for him, he would not have thanked you."

Raby spoke with downcast eyes, and neither she nor Scarfe perceived the poor tramp on the path, who, as they brushed past him, glanced wistfully round at their faces.

"He never thanked me," said Scarfe.

They walked on some distance in silence. Then Scarfe said, "Miss Atherton, you are unfair to me now. You think I acted out of spite, instead of out of affection—for you."

"It is a kind of affection I don't appreciate, Mr Scarfe; and as the rain has nearly stopped I need not trouble you any more. Thank you for the shelter, and good-bye."

"You really mean that you reject me—that you do not care for me?"

"I do not. I am sorry to say so—good-bye."

And she left him there, bewildered certainly, but in no manner of doubt that she had done with him.

She told her father all about it that evening, and was a good deal reassured by his hearty approval of her conduct.

"The kindest thing you could have done, instead of letting him dangle after you indefinitely. Rough on him, perhaps; but that sort of fellow doesn't deserve much letting down."

The reader has heard already how in the course of her visits of mercy Raby happened to find Jonah Trimble very near his end, and how she was able to cheer and lighten his dying hours. Little dreamed she, as she sat by the death-bed that morning, and wrote those few dying words, into whose hands her little letter would fall, or what a spell they would work on the life of him who received them. From the other neighbours she heard not a little about "John," and sometimes wished she might chance to see him. But he was away from early morning till late at night, and they never met. Mrs Pratt in the room below, and her little dying daughter, had many a tale of kindness and devotion to tell about him; and when presently the little life fled, she heard with grateful tears of his act of mercy to the poor overwrought mother, and thanked God for it.

The time passed on, and one day early in December, when she returned home, she found her father in an unwonted state of excitement.

"There's a clue, Raby, at last!" he said.

"A clue, father—you mean about young Forrester?"

"About both. It's the most mixed-up affair I was ever in. Who do you suppose has written in answer to our advertisement about Forrester?"

"Has he replied himself?" asked Raby disingenuously; for she guessed the truth.

"Not a bit of it. The letter's from Jeffreys. He doesn't sign his name, of course; but he writes to say that he was at Bolsover, and was responsible for the accident, and repeats what Rimbolt knows already about his trying to hear of them in his native place. There's nothing very fresh about Forrester; but it may lead to our finding Jeffreys."

"Of course," said Raby, finding it hard to conceal her emotion, "he has written to the lawyers. Does he give an address, then?"

"No—only a coffee-house in Drury Lane. He's evidently on his guard against a trap. He writes private and confidential; but you can see he is ready to do anything to find Forrester."

"What shall you do?"

"Well, Rimbolt says leave it to the lawyers. Of course we've no right to trap him, and Rimbolt thinks Wilkins & Wilkins had better not mention our names, but let him know they are acting for Forrester's executors. If he's not scared during the first visit or two, he may consent to see me, or Percy—and among us we may be able to help him out of his present condition, which, to judge by his letter, I should fancy is rather reduced. He has been asked to call at Wilkins' on Wednesday, and they have promised to treat the matter as confidential—and we shall just have to trust they will manage to talk him round."



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

A BRAND FROM THE BURNING!

Little suspecting the interest which his movements were causing elsewhere, Jeffreys, on the appointed Wednesday, presented himself at Messrs. Wilkins & Wilkins' office. He was so much changed by eight months' misery and privation that no ordinary acquaintance would have recognised in the broken-down, haggard man who entered the office the once robust and stalwart librarian of Wildtree. Even Percy would have had to look at him twice to make sure.

Mr Wilkins looked up curiously at his visitor.

"Ah," said he, "you have called in reference to that advertisement about Gerard Forrester. Quite so. Let me see. I have your letter here, Mr —"

"It is not necessary to know my name," said Jeffreys.

"Just as you please. Of course, as you say you were at Bolsover School with Forrester, and were the cause of his accident, it is hardly worth while making a mystery of it."

"I forgot that. My name is John Jeffreys."

"Thank you. It is a very proper thing of you to offer to assist us in our search, and I shall be glad if in the end you should become entitled to the reward which has been offered."

"I would not touch a farthing of it," said Jeffreys, with a scorn that astonished the lawyer.

"Well, that's your affair. I can understand you have some remorse for what has occurred, and would be glad to help, reward or no reward."

"I would give my life to find young Forrester. Has anything been heard of him?"

"Not much, though we have been able to trace him rather farther than you did. We found a day or two ago a mention of the case of a lad suffering from the results of an accident such as he appears to have met with in one of the medical papers at the time. The case was reported as having been treated at Middlesex Hospital, and I find on inquiry there that in the December of that year Gerard Forrester was a patient under treatment for some months, and in the May following was discharged as incurable. That, you see, was more than eighteen months ago."

Jeffreys felt his heart thump excitedly as he listened. It was little enough, but it seemed at least to bring him six months nearer to the object of his search.

"After that," said Mr Wilkins, "we are unable to discover anything. The address entered against his name in the hospital books, which was probably that of his old nurse, cannot now be found, as the street has been pulled down a year ago, and no one recollects him. I saw the surgeon at the hospital, who remembered the case, and he explained to me that the boy when he left there might have lived a month or twenty years. In any case he would always have to lie on his back. It would be possible, he said, for him to use his hands—indeed, he believed during the last week or two of his stay in the hospital he had amused himself with drawing."

"He was considered good at drawing at Bolsover," put in Jeffreys.

"So he may possibly have been able to earn a living of some sort. The strange thing is that he does not appear to have written to any one. He might have communicated with his former head-master, or some of his grandmother's friends at Grangerham, but he has not. According to Colonel—to my client's account, he does not even appear to have written to his father, though it is possible a letter may have miscarried there. You have heard, no doubt, that his father died in action in Afghanistan in January?"

"Yes, I heard that—very gallantly."

"Yes; in fact, the boy would, I believe, if he could be found, be entitled to a pension, besides what little property his father left. The account of the action, as well as our advertisements, have been in the papers. If Gerard is alive, he is probably somewhere beyond the reach of the press, and for my own part I cannot see how he can be in any but destitute circumstances."

This was all there was to say. But Mr Wilkins' task was not yet done. He had been instructed to ascertain, if possible, something of Jeffreys' present condition, and to sound him as to his willingness to see again some of the friends of his old life.

"I am afraid," said he, "you too have had reverses, Mr Jeffreys."

"Never mind me, please," replied he.

"You are living near here?"

"No."

"You must excuse me if I take an interest in you—as a former schoolfellow of young Forrester's. You have come through much since then?"

"Not more than I deserve," said Jeffreys, fidgeting.

"My client, I think, would have been glad to see you; but as you made a point of this interview being confidential, I was not justified in asking him to be present."

"Oh no. I don't want to see any one."

"It would be a great help to my client, who is a stranger in London, if you, who know Forrester, would assist him."

"Who is your client, may I ask?"

"My client," said Mr Wilkins, resolved to make the venture, "is a Colonel Atherton, an old comrade of Captain Forrester, who has undertaken to try and find the boy and provide for him."

Jeffreys started, and replied—

"No; I will do anything to help by myself, but I do not wish to meet him."

"You know him, then?"

"No, I have never seen him."

"He would, I can promise, respect your confidence, Mr Jeffreys."

"I know, but I cannot meet him or any one. I will do anything he wants about searching for Forrester—he cannot be more anxious about it than I am—but I have every reason for wishing to remain unknown."

"You forget that it is hardly possible he can fail to know your name; and he has friends, some of whom I believe are deeply interested in your welfare."

Jeffreys shuddered.

"I can't say more," said he. "I will do all I can, but I want to see nobody but you."

"I may, of course, report this interview to my client?"

"Of course; I can't prevent that."

"And I must tell him you definitely refuse to meet him."

"Yes. I cannot see him."

"Or tell him your address?"

"No; you know where a letter would find me."

"Well, will you call again—say this day week?"

"Yes; to see you alone."

Thus the unsatisfactory interview ended.

Mr Wilkins was a man of honour, and felt he had no right to insist on Jeffreys opening communications with the colonel; still less had he the right as he might easily have done, to track his footsteps and discover his hiding-place.

Jeffreys, alive to a sense of insecurity, evidently expected the possibility of some such friendly ruse, for he returned to his work by a long and circuitous course which would have baffled even the cleverest of detectives. He seriously debated with himself that night the desirability of vacating his garret at Storr Alley and seeking lodgings somewhere else. His old life seemed hemming him in; and like the wary hare, he felt the inclination to double on his pursuers and give them the slip.

For, rightly or wrongly, he had convinced himself that the one calamity to be dreaded was his recapture by the friends in whose house his bad name had played him so evil a revenge.

Yet how could he leave Storr Alley? Had he not ties there?

Was it not worth worlds to him to hear now and then, on his return at night, some scrap of news of the ministering angel whose visits cheered the place in his absence? He shrank more than ever from a chance meeting; but was it not a pardonable self-indulgence to stay where he could hear and even speak of her?

Nor was that his only tie now.

Mrs Pratt, in the room below, had never recovered yet from the illness that had prostrated her at little Annie's death; and night by night Jeffreys had carried the two babies to his own attic in order to give her the rest she needed, and watch over them in their hours of cold and restlessness.

He became an expert nurse. He washed and dressed those two small brethren—the eldest of whom was barely three—as deftly and gently as if he had been trained to the work. And he manipulated their frugal meals, and stowed them away in his bed, with all the art of a practised nurse. How could he desert them now? How indeed? That very night, as he sat writing, with the little pair sleeping fitfully on the bed, a head was put in at the door, and a voice said in a whisper, "Poor Mrs Pratt's gone, John."

"What," he said, "is she dead?"

"Yes—all of a sudden—the 'art done it—I know'd she was weak there. Poor dear—and her husband such a bad 'un too, and they do say she was be'ind with her rent."

So the woman chattered on, and when at last she went, Jeffreys glanced at his two unconscious charges and went on writing. No, he could not leave Storr Alley.

In the morning, as usual, he performed their little toilets, and announced to the elder that his mother was gone away, and they might stay upstairs. Whereat the little orphan was merry, and executed a caper on the bare floor.

A fresh dilemma faced the newly made father. He must work if he and his family were to eat. The thirty shillings he had earned last week could not last for ever. Indeed, the neighbours all seemed to take it for granted he would see to Mrs Pratt's burial; and how could he do otherwise? That meant a decided pull on his small resources. For a day or two he might live on his capital, and after that—

He put off that uncomfortable speculation. The baby began loudly to demand its morning meal; and the three-year-old, having run through its mirth, began to whimper for its mother. Altogether Jeffreys had a busy time of it.

So busy that when, about mid-day, Tim, who had been perched upon a box at the window to amuse himself at the peril of his neck by looking out into the court below, suddenly exclaimed—"There she is!" he bounded from his seat like one electrified, and for the first time realised that she might come and find him!

There was barely a chance of escape. She had already entered the house; and he became aware of the little flutter which usually pervaded the crowded tenement when she set foot in it. She had many families to visit, and each grudged her to the next. The women had yards of trouble to unroll to her sympathy; and the children besieged her for stories and songs. The sick lifted their heads as they heard her foot on the steps; and even the depraved and vicious and idle set their doors ajar to get a glimpse of her as she passed.

What could he do? Wait and face her, and perhaps meet her look of scorn, or worse still, of forgiveness? or hide from her? He debated the question till he heard her enter the chamber of death below.

Then there came over him a vision of her as he had last seen her that October afternoon with Scarfe in Regent's Park. With a groan he gathered together his papers, and bidding Tim mind the baby till he returned, seized his hat and hurried from the room. On the dark, narrow staircase he brushed against a dress which he knew must be hers. For a moment he was tempted to pause, if only for a look at her face; but she passed on, and was gone before he could turn.

He went out miserably into the street, and waited within view of the entrance to the alley till she should come out. She was long before she appeared—he guessed how those two friendless little orphans would detain her. When she came her veil was down, and in the crowd on the pavement he lost sight of her in a moment. Yet he knew her, and all his resolution once more wavered, as he reflected that he was still within reach of her voice and her smile.

He returned anxiously to the attic. The baby lay asleep on the bed, and Tim, perched on his window seat, was crooning over a little doll.

There was a flower on the table; the scanty furniture of the room had been set in order, and his quick eye even noticed that a rent in Tim's frock which had caused him some concern in the morning had been neatly mended.

Tim came and put the little doll into his hands.

"She gave it me. Will she soon come again?" said the child.

"Yes; she's sure to come again."

"You ran away; you was afraid. I wasn't."

In a strange turmoil of emotions Jeffreys resumed his writing. The flower in the cup beside him was only a half-withered aster, yet it seemed to him to perfume the room.

After dark the neighbour put her head into the room.

"Then you didn't see the lady?" said she.

"No; I was out."

"It's a pity. She's a angel, John. The way she sat with them poor childer would do you good to see. I told 'er you 'ad took them, and, bless you, 'er eyes filled with tears to think of a man doing it when you might let them go to the work'us. Not that I wouldn't do it, John, if I 'adn't six of my own and the mangle and not room to turn round. And Mrs Parkes was a-saying the childer would be welcome in 'er room, only the smells is that bad in 'er corner that there's no living in it except for seasoned bodies. There's my Polly, you know, John, is eight, and she would look after them now and again, when you're busy. She's a good child, is Polly, and can write on a slate beautiful."

Jeffreys thanked her, and promised to come to an arrangement with Polly, and went on with his work.

In due time the claims of hunger created a diversion, and he and his infants—one on each knee—partook of a comfortable repast of bread and milk.

He had hard work to induce the baby, after it was over, to resume his slumbers. That young gentleman evidently had a vivid recollection of some one having walked about with him and sung him to sleep in the middle of the day, and he resented now being unceremoniously laid on his back and expected to slumber without persuasion.

Jeffreys had to take him up finally and pace the room for an hour, and about ten o'clock sat down to his interrupted work. Till midnight he laboured on; then, cold and wearied, he put out his little candle and lay himself beside the children on the bed.

He had scarcely done so when he became aware of a glare at the window, which brought him to his feet in an instant. It was a fire somewhere.

His first panic that it might be in the house was quickly relieved. It was not even in Storr Alley, but in one of the courts adjoining. He looked down from his window. The alley was silent and empty. No one there, evidently, had yet had an alarm.

Quickly putting on his boots, he hurried down, and made his way in the direction of the flames. From below they were still scarcely visible, and he concluded that the fire, wherever it was, must have broken out in a top storey. Driver's Court, which backed onto Storr Alley, with which it was connected at the far end by a narrow passage, was an unknown land to Jeffreys. The Jews in Storr's had no dealings with the Samaritans in Driver's; for Storr Alley, poor as it might be, prided itself on being decent and hard-working, whereas Driver's—you should have heard the stories told about it. It was a regular thieves' college. A stranger who chanced into Driver's with a watch-chain upon him, or a chink of money in his pocket, or even a good coat on his back, might as soon think of coming out by the way he had entered as of flying. There were ugly stories of murders and mysteries under those dark staircases, and even the police drew the line at Driver's Court, and gave it the go-by.

Jeffreys had nothing to apprehend as he rushed down the passage. He had neither watch, chain, nor money, nor good coat. His footsteps echoing noisily in the midnight silence brought a few heads to their windows, and almost before he stood in the court there was the cry of "Fire!"

Terrible anywhere, such a cry in a court like Driver's was terrible indeed. In a moment the narrow pavement swarmed with people, shouting, cursing, and screaming. Although even yet the flames scarcely appeared from below, a panic set in which it was hopeless either to remove or control. Chairs, tables, mattresses were flung, it seemed at random, from the windows. Mothers, not venturing out on the stairs, cried down to those below to catch their children. Drunken men, suddenly roused, reeled fighting and blaspheming into the court. Thieves plied their trade even on their panic-stricken neighbours, and fell to blows over the plunder. Still more terrible was the cry to others who remained within.

Children, huddled into corners, heard that cry, and it glued them where they stood. The sick and the crippled heard it, and made one last effort to rise and escape. Even the aged and bedridden, deserted by all, when they heard it, lay shouting for some one to help.

The flames, pent-up at first and reddening the sky sullenly through the smoke, suddenly freed themselves and shot up in a wild sheet above the court. The crowd below answered the outburst with a hideous chorus of shrieks and yells, and surged madly towards the doomed house.

There was no gleam of pity or devotion in those lurid, upturned faces. To many of them it was a show, a spectacle; to others a terrible nightmare, to others a cruel freak of Providence, calling forth curses.

The flames, spreading downwards, had already reached the second floor, when a window suddenly opened; and a woman with wild dishevelled hair, put out her head and screamed wildly.

The crowd caught sight of her, and answered with something like a jeer.

"It's Black Sal," some one shouted; "she's kotched it at last."

"Why don't you jump?" shouted another.

"Booh?" shouted a third. "Who skinned the cripple?"

The woman gave a scared look up and down. The flames at that moment wrapped round the window, and, with a wild howl, the crowd saw her disappear into the room.

Jeffreys all this time had been standing wedged in the crowd, a spectator of that hideous scene, and now a witness of this last tragedy.

With a desperate effort he fought his way to the front, hitting right and left to make himself a passage. It was a minute before he got through. Then the crowd, realising as if by intuition his purpose, staggered back, and raised a howl as he dashed into the door of the half-consumed building.

The first flight of steps was still intact, and he was up it in a moment; but as he dashed up the second the smoke whirled down in his face and half-choked him. He groped—for it was impossible to see—in search of the door; and guided partly by the roar of the crowd without, and partly by the shrieks within, he found the room.

It was full of flame as he entered it, and to all appearance contained nothing else. The wretched woman, finding the stairs worse to face than the window, had rushed back there and flung herself desperately onto the heads of the crowd below. As he turned to save himself, Jeffreys, amid the roar of the flames, caught the sound of a shout from the corner of the room which he had imagined to be empty.

Rushing towards it, he caught sight of a figure of a lad on the floor, blackened with smoke, and evidently unable to move.

Yet he was not senseless, for he called, "I can't walk—help me."

Jeffreys caught him in his arms in a moment, and only just in time. He had literally to wade through flame to the door; and when he reached the stairs outside, the dense smoke, reddening every instant, burst upon him well-nigh overwhelmingly.

How he struggled down that awful flight with his burden he knew not. More than once he stumbled; and once a shower of fallen embers all but stunned him. It was all done in a minute.

Those who watched without marvelled how soon he returned; and when they perceived that he bore in his arms a living creature, even Driver's Court swayed back to let him pass, and cheered him. Happily a cry of "Engines!" at the other end of the court diverted the crowd still further, and enabled him to stagger forward clear of danger.

"Drop him, he's a dead 'un!" shouted some one who stopped a moment to peer into the face of the senseless lad.

"I'll give you a shilling to help me with him out of this," said Jeffreys.

It was a shilling well spent. Unaided he could never have done it, but with the sturdy gladiator to clear the way he was able at last to reach the comparative seclusion of Storr Alley. The offer of another shilling prevailed on the man to carry the lad to the attic.

Then for the first time left to himself, he looked in the face of this unexpected guest. And as he did so the room seemed to swim round him. He forgot where he was or what he was. He looked down on an upturned face, but one not blackened with smoke. It was white and livid, with green grass for a background—and the roar he heard was no longer the distant yell of a panic-stricken mob, but boys' voices—voices shouting at himself! Yes, for the last time that vision rose before him. Then with a mighty effort he shook off the dream and looked once more in the face of the boy who lay there on the floor of the Storr Alley garret. And as he did so young Forrester slowly opened his eyes.



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

COME BACK.

Raby had come home with a strange story from Storr Alley that afternoon. She was not much given to romance, but to her there was something pathetic about this man "John" and his unceremonious adoption of those orphan children. She had not seen anything exactly like it, and it moved both her admiration and her curiosity.

She had heard much about "John" from the neighbours, and all she had heard had been of the right sort. Jonah had talked bitterly of him now and then, but before he died he had acknowledged that John had been his only friend. Little Annie had never mentioned him without a smile brightening her face; and even those who had complaints to pour out about everybody all round could find nothing to say about him. Yet she seemed destined never to see him.

The next day, at her usual time, Raby turned her steps to Storr Alley. Groups of people stood about in the court, and it was evident, since she was last there, something untoward had happened. A fireman's helmet at the other end of the alley, in the passage leading to Driver's Court, told its own tale; and if that was not enough, the smell of fire and the bundles of rags and broken furniture which blocked up the narrow pathway, were sufficient evidence.

The exiles from Driver's stared hard at the young lady as she made her way through the crowd; but the people of Storr Alley treated her as a friend, and she had no lack of information as to the calamity of the preceding night.

Raby paid several visits on her way up. Then, with some trepidation, she knocked at the door of the garret. There was no reply from within till she turned the handle, and said—

"May I come in?"

Then a voice replied,—

"Yes, if you like," and she entered.

It was a strange scene which met her eyes as she did so. A lad was stretched on the bed, awake, but, motionless, regarding with some anxiety a baby who slumbered, nestling close to his side. On the floor, curled up, with his face to the wall, lay a man sleeping heavily; while Tim, divided in his interest between the stranger on the bed and the visitor at the door, stood like a little watchdog suddenly put on his guard.

"May I come in?" said Raby again timidly.

"Here she is!" cried Tim, running to her; "John's asleep, and he,"— pointing to the figure on the bed—"can't run about."

"Correct, Timothy," said the youth referred to; "I can't—hullo!"

This last exclamation was caused by his catching sight of Raby at the door. He had expected a lodger; but what was this apparition?

"Please come in," said he, bewildered; "it's a shocking room to ask you into, and—Timothy, introduce me to your friend."

Raby smiled; and how the crippled lad thought it brightened the room! "Tim and I are friends," said she, lifting up the child to give him a kiss. "I'm afraid you are very badly hurt. I heard of the fire as I came up."

"No, I'm all right; I'm never very active. In fact, I can only move my hands and my head, as Timothy says. I can't run, I'm a cripple. I shouldn't be anything if it wasn't for Jeff. Hullo, Jeff! wake up, old man!"

Raby started and turned pale as she raised her hand to prevent his waking the sleeper.

"No, please, don't wake him; what did you say his name was?"

"Jeffreys—John Jeffreys—commonly called Jeff. He hauled me out of the fire last night, and guessed as little at the time who I was as I guessed who he was. I can't believe it yet. It's like a—"

"You haven't told me your name," said Raby faintly.

"Gerard Forrester, at your service. Hullo, I say, are you ill? Hi! Jeff, wake up, old man; you're wanted."

Raby had only time to sink on a chair and draw Tim to her when Jeffreys suddenly woke and rose to his feet.

"What is it, Forrester, old fellow? anything wrong?" said he, springing to the bedside.

"I don't know what's the matter—look behind you."

————————————————————————————————————

"Why did she cry?" asked Tim presently, when she had gone. "I know; because of that ugly man," added he, pointing to Forrester.

"Excuse me, young man, I have the reputation of being good-looking; that cannot have been the reason. But, Jeff, I'm all in a dream. Who is she? and how comes she to know you or me? And, as Timothy pertinently remarks, 'Whence these tears?' Tell us all about it before the baby wakes."

Jeffreys told him. The story was the history of his life since he had left Bolsover; and it took long to tell, for he passed over nothing.

"Poor old man!" said Forrester, when it was done; "what a lot you have been through!"

"Have I not deserved it? That day at Bolsover—"

"Oh, for goodness' sake, don't go back to that. You know it was an accident, and what was not an accident was the fault of my own folly. That night I awoke and saw you standing at the door, I knew that you had already suffered as much as I had."

"That was the last time I saw you. You forget I have still to hear what happened to you afterwards."

"It's pretty easily told. But I say, Jeff, what did you say her name was?"

"Raby Atherton," said Jeffreys, smiling. This was about the twentieth time the boy had broken in with some question about her. "She is the daughter of your guardian, Colonel Atherton, who was your father's comrade in Afghanistan. Some day she will tell you the story of a battle out there which will make you proud of being Captain Forrester's son. But I want to hear about you."

"I was taken home to Grangerham, you know. My grandmother was ill at the time, and just starting South, so I was left in charge of my old nurse. She was an awful brick to me, was that old soul, and I don't believe I know yet all she did and put up with for me.

"The doctors at Grangerham couldn't make anything of me. One said I'd be cutting about again in a few weeks, and another said I'd be buried in a few days. It's hard to decide when doctors disagree at that rate, and old Mary gave it up, and did what was the best thing—kept me quietly at home. Of course we thought that my grandmother had written to my father, but she hadn't, so he can't have heard for ages. We heard of my grandmother's death presently, and then made the pleasant discovery that she had died in debt, and that the furniture of the house was hired. That pulled Mary and me up short. She had saved a little, and I believe she spent every penny of that to get me up to London to a hospital. I didn't have a bad time of it there for a month or two. I was considered an interesting case, and had all sorts of distinguished fellows to come and look at me, and I lived like a fighting-cock all the time. I found, as long as I lay flat, and didn't get knocked about, I was really pretty comfortable, and what was more, I could use my hands. That was no end of a blessing. I had picked up a few ideas about drawing you know, at Bolsover, and found now that I could do pretty well at it. I believe some of my sketches at the Middlesex were thought well of. Mary came to see me nearly every day. I could see she was getting poorer and poorer, and when at last I was discharged, the little rooms she took me to were about as poor as they could be to be respectable.

"I'd hardly been back a week, when one day after going out to try to sell some of my sketches, she came home ill and died quite suddenly. I was all up a tree then—no money, no friends, no legs. I wrote to Frampton, but he can't have got my letter. Then I got threatened with eviction, and all but left out in the street, when the person old Mary had sold my sketches to called round and ordered some more. I didn't see him, but a brute of a woman who lived in the house did, and was cute enough to see she could make a good thing out of me. So she took possession of me, and ever since then I've been a prisoner, cut off from the outside world as completely as if I had been in a dungeon, grinding out pictures by the dozen, and never seeing a farthing of what they fetched, except in the food which Black Sal provided to keep me alive. Now and then, in an amiable mood, she would get me a newspaper; and once I had to illustrate a cheap edition of Cook's Voyages, and of course had the book to go by. But she never let me write to anybody or see anybody, and mounted guard over me as jealously as if I had been a veritable goose that laid golden eggs.

"You know the rest. We got turned out when they pulled down the old place, and took refuge in Driver's Alley, a nice select neighbourhood; and there you found me, old man."

"Think of being near one another so long," said Jeffreys, "and never knowing it."

"Ten to one that's exactly what my guardian's daughter is observing to herself at this moment. I say, Jeff, compared with Driver's Court, this is a palatial apartment, and you are a great improvement on Black Sal; but for ah that, don't you look forward to seeing a little civilisation—to eating with a fork, for instance, and hearing an 'h' aspirated; and—oh, Jeff, it will be heavenly to wear a clean collar!"

Jeffreys laughed.

"Your two years' trouble haven't cast out the spirit of irreverence, youngster," said he.

"It is jolly to hear myself called youngster," said the boy, in a parenthesis; "it reminds me of the good old days."

"Before Bolsover?" said Jeffreys sadly.

"Look here! If you go back to that again, and pull any more of those long faces, Jeff, I'll be angry with you. Wasn't all that affair perhaps a blessing in the long run? It sent me to a school that's done me more good than Bolsover; and as for you—well, but for it you'd never have had that sweet visitor this morning."

"Don't talk of that. That is one of the chief drawbacks to my going back into civilisation, as you call it."

"A very nice drawback—if it's the only one—"

"It's not—there's another."

"What is that?"

"My babies!"

It was a strange, happy night, that last in the Storr Alley garret. Jeffreys had begged Raby to let them stay where they were in peace for that day; and she considerately kept their counsel till the morning. Then she told her father the strange story.

"Two birds with one stone, and such a stone!" ejaculated the bewildered colonel.

"Four birds, father—there are two babies as well."

"Whew!" said the colonel, "what a holiday I am having!"

"Poor father," said the girl, "it's too bad!"

"Oh, well. The more the merrier. What's to be done now? We'd better charter a coach and four and a brass band and go and fetch them home in state. If they'd wait till to-morrow we would have up a triumphal arch too."

"How frivolous you are, father! We must get them away with as little fuss as possible. I arranged with Mr Jeffreys that he would bring Mr Forrester here in a cab this morning."

"And the babies?"

"He will go back for them afterwards."

"Well, as you like; but what about Percy and the Rimbolts?"

"Percy was to go out of town to-day, you know, and will not be back till to-morrow. By that time we shall be able to find out what Mr Jeffreys would like best."

"Oh, very good. We'll wait till his royal highness signifies his pleasure, and meanwhile our relatives and friends must be avoided— that's what you mean."

"No," said Raby, colouring; "but you know how easily frightened he is."

The colonel laughed pleasantly.

"All right, Raby; they shall be let down as easily as you like. Now shall I be in the way when they come, or shall I make myself scarce? And, by the way, I must go at once and get a perambulator, and feeding- bottles, and all that sort of thing. How many times a day am I to be sent out to take them walks?"

"You're too silly for anything," said Raby dutifully.

She was grateful to him for making things so easy, and for covering her own ill-disguised embarrassment by this adroit show of frivolity.

There was no frivolity in the manner in which the gallant soldier welcomed his old comrade's son, when an hour later he entered the house, borne in the strong arms of his friend. A couch was ready for him, and everything was made as simple and homelike as possible. Jeffreys stayed long enough to help the boy into the civilised garments provided for him, and then quietly betook himself once more to Storr Alley.

The curiosity roused by the departure of 'Black Sal's Forrester' in a cab was redoubled when, late that afternoon, Jeffreys was seen walking out of the alley with the baby in one arm and Tim holding onto the other. He had considered it best to make no public announcement of his departure. If he had, he might have found it more difficult than it was to take the important step. As it was, he had to run a gauntlet of a score of inquisitive idlers, who were by no means satisfied with the assurance that he was going to give the children an airing.

The general opinion seemed to be that he was about to take the children to the workhouse, and a good deal of odium was worked up in consequence. Some went so far as to say he was going to sell or drown the infants; and others, Driver's Alley refugees, promised him a warm reception if he returned without them! He neither returned with nor without them. They saw him no more. But it was given to the respectable inhabitants of a crescent near Regent's Park, about half an hour later, to witness the strange spectacle of a big young man, carrying a small baby in his arms and a big one on his shoulder—for Tim had turned restive on his hands— walk solemnly along the footpath till he reached the door of Colonel Atherton's, where he rang.

The colonel and Raby had a queer tea-party that evening. When the meal was ended, Jeffreys was called upon to put his infants to bed, and a wonderful experience to those small mortals was the warm bath and the feather-bed to which they were severally introduced. Jeffreys was thankful that the baby was restless, and gave him an excuse for remaining in retirement most of the evening. At length, however, silence reigned; and he had no further excuse.

Entering the parlour, he perceived almost with a shock that Mr Rimbolt was there. He had called in accidentally, and had just been told the news.

"My dear fellow," said he, as he took his old librarian's hand, "how we have longed for this day!"

Raby and her father were occupied with Forrester, and Jeffreys and his old employer were left undisturbed.

What they talked about I need not repeat. It chiefly had reference to Storr Alley and to Percy.

"He is down at Watford seeing a friend to-night. We expect him back to- morrow morning. How happy he will be! By the way," added Mr Rimbolt, a moment afterwards, "now I remember, there is a train leaves Euston for Overstone at 12:30, half an hour after Percy's train comes in. How should you like to meet him, and run down with him for a week or two to Wildtree? He sadly wants a change, and my books sadly want looking after there. You will have the place to yourselves, but perhaps you won't mind that."

Jeffreys flushed with pleasure at the proposal. It was the very programme he would have selected. But for a moment his face clouded, as he glanced towards Forrester.

"I don't know whether I ought to leave him?"

"He is with his guardian, you know, and could not be in better quarters."

"Then—you know I have—that is, you know—there are two—babies."

Raby, however, when the question was subsequently discussed, expressed herself fully equal to the care of these promising infants until a home could be found for them; and Forrester, for his part, declared that Jeffreys must and should go to Wildtree.

"Can't you see I don't want you any more?" said he. "This sofa's so comfortable, I'm certain I shall sleep a fortnight straight away, and then my guardian and I have no end of business to talk over, haven't we, guardian? and you'd really be in the way."

So it was settled. The whole party retired early to bed after their exciting day. Jeffreys slept for the last time between the babies, and could scarcely believe, when he awoke, that he was not still in Storr Alley.

Still less could Tim when he awoke realise where he was. For the John he was accustomed to stood no longer in his weather-beaten, tattered garments, but in the respectable librarian's suit which he had left behind him at Clarges Street, and which now, by some mysterious agency, found itself transferred to his present room.

Tim resented the change, and bellowed vehemently for the space of an hour, being joined at intervals by his younger brother, and egged on by the mocking laughter of young Forrester, who was enjoying the exhibition from the adjoining chamber.

For once Jeffreys could do nothing with his disorderly infants, and was compelled finally to carry them down one under each arm, to the sitting- room, where Raby came to the rescue, and thus established her claim on their allegiance for a week or so to come.

In a strange turmoil of feelings Jeffreys at mid-day walked to Euston. Mr Rimbolt was there with Percy's travelling bag and the tickets, but he did not remain till the train from Watford came in.

"I may be running down to the North myself in about a fortnight," said he, as he bade good-bye; "we can leave business till then—good-bye."

The train came in at last. Jeffreys could see the boy pacing in a nonchalant way down the platform, evidently expecting anything but this meeting.

His eyes seemed by some strange perversity even to avoid the figure which stood waiting for him; nor was it till Jeffreys quietly stepped in front of him, and said "Percy," that they took him in and blazed forth a delighted recognition.

"Jeff," he said, "you've come back—really?"

"Yes, really."

"To stay—for good?"

"For good—old fellow."

Percy heaved a sight of mighty content as he slipped his arm into that of his friend. And half an hour later the two were whizzing northwards on their way to Wildtree, with their troubles all behind them.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

A FRESH START.

It is supposed to be the duty of every well-conducted author, after the curtain has fallen on the final tableau of his little drama, to lift it, or half lift it, for a momentary last glimpse at the principal actors.

I am not quite sure whether this is not an encouragement to laziness on the part of the reader. In most respects he is as well able to picture the future of Jeffreys, and Raby, and Percy, and Tim as I am.

I cannot show them to you in all the dignity of an honoured old age, because they are only a year or two older to-day than they were when Percy and Jeffreys took that little run together down to Cumberland. Nor can I show them to you, after the fashion of a fairy tale, "married and living happily ever afterwards," because when I met Jeffreys in the Strand the other day, he told me that although he had just been appointed to the control of a great public library in the North, it would still be some months, possibly a year, before he would be able to set up house on his own account.

However, he seemed contented on the whole to wait a bit; and in a long talk we had as we walked up and down the Embankment I heard a good many scraps of information which made it possible to satisfy the reader on one or two points about which he may still be anxious.

Jeffreys and Percy stayed at Wildtree for a month, and the time was one of the happiest both of them ever spent. They did nothing exciting. They read some Aristophanes, and added some new "dodge" to their wonderful automatic bookcase. They went up Wild Pike one bright winter's day and had a glorious view from the top. And on the ledge coming back they sat and rested awhile on a spot they both remembered well. Julius's grave was not forgotten when they reached the valley below; and the "J" upon the stone which marks the place to this day was their joint work for an hour that afternoon.

As for the books, Jeffreys had sprung towards them on his first arrival as a father springs towards his long-lost family. They were sadly in want of dusting and arranging, as for a month or two no one had been near them. On the floor lay the parcels, just as they had arrived from the sale in Exeter; and altogether Jeffreys had work enough to keep him busy, not for one month only, but for several. He was not sorry to be busy. For amid all the happiness and comforts of his new return to life he had many cares on his mind.

There was Forrester. He had imagined that if he could only find him, all would be right, the past would be cancelled and his bad name would never again trouble him. But as he thought of the helpless cripple, lying there unable to move without assistance, with all his prospects blighted and his very life a burden to him, he began to realise that the past was not cancelled, that he had a life's debt yet to pay, and a life's wrong for which, as far as possible, to make amends. But he bravely faced his duty. Forrester's letters, which came frequently, certainly did not much encourage melancholy reflections.

"I'm in clover here," the boy wrote about a week after Jeffreys had gone North. "One would think I'd done something awfully fine. My guardian is a trump—and is ever tired of telling me about my father. Do you know I'm to have a pension from a grateful country? What wouldn't Black Sal say to get hold of me now? What I value quite as much is his sword, which I keep by my couch like a Knight Templar. So mind what you're up to when you come back.

"Here am I writing about myself, when I know you are longing to hear about (turn over-leaf and hide your blushes)—the babies! They are tip- top. Timothy, ever since I got my sword, has shown great respect for me, and sits on the pillow while I sketch. By the way, do you recognise enclosed portrait? It's my first attempt at a face—rather a pleasant face too, eh? Oh, about the babies. The young 'un's cut a tooth. The whole house has been agitated in consequence, and the colonel is as proud as if he'd captured a province. So are we all. They are to go to an orphanage, I believe, in a week or two; but not till you come back and give your parental benediction. My guardian is going to write you all about it. He promises military openings for both when they arrive at the proper age; and Tim is practising already on a drum which she has given him.

"She, by the way, never mentions you, which is an excellent sign, but rather rough on me when I want to talk about you. She occasionally is drawn out to talk about a certain Mr John at Storr Alley; but, as you know, she only knew about him from hearsay. How's that boy who has got hold of you down in Cumberland? Are he and I to be friends or enemies? Tell him I'm game for either, and give him choice of weapons if the latter. But as long as he lets me see you now and then and treats you well, we may as well be friends. I'm flourishing and awfully in love. Stay away as long as you can; you're not wanted here. The lady of Clarges Street came to see me yesterday. She sent you really a kind message; so even in that quarter you may yet look for a friend. Good- bye—remember me to that chap. Tim sends his duty; and she when I mentioned I was writing to you and asked if there was any message, did not hear what I said.—G.F."

There was plenty in this bright letter to give comfort to Jeffreys. He rejoiced humbly in its affectionate tone towards himself. He treasured the portrait. He was gratified at the unenvious references to Percy, and he was relieved at the prospect before his babies.

The part that referred to Raby left him less room for jubilation. Forrester evidently thought, as Percy did, that in that quarter everything was plain sailing. They neither of them realised the gulf between the two, and they neither of them knew of that miserable October afternoon in Regent's Park. Forrester's jocular reference to Raby's silence and reserve seemed to Jeffreys but a confirmation of what he believed to be the truth.

He was to her what any other friend in distress might be, an object of sweet pity and solicitude. But that was all. He had a bad name, and much as she would brave for him to help him, she did not—how could she?—love him.

At the end of a month Mr Rimbolt wrote to say he was coming down to Wildtree, and would be glad if Percy and Jeffreys would meet him with the carriage at Overstone.

They did so, and found that he was not alone. Mr Halgrove stepped pleasantly out of the train at the same time and greeted his quondam ward with characteristic ease.

"Ah, Jeffreys—here we are again. I'm always meeting you at odd places. How fresh everything looks after the rain!"

"Mr Halgrove is my brother-in-law, you know, Jeffreys," said Mr Rimbolt, in response to his librarian's blank look of consternation. "I brought him down, as he wanted to see you and have a talk. If you two would like to walk," added he, "Percy and I will drive on, and have dinner ready by the time you arrive."

"Good-hearted fellow, Rimbolt," said Mr Halgrove, as they started to walk, "he always was. That's Wild Pike, I suppose?"

"Yes," said Jeffreys, greatly puzzled at this unexpected meeting.

"Yes, Rimbolt's a good fellow; and doesn't mind telling bad fellows that they aren't. You'll smile, Jeffreys; but he has actually made me uncomfortable sometimes."

"Really?" said Jeffreys, thinking it must have been some very remarkable effort which succeeded in accomplishing, that wonder.

"Yes. I told him once casually about an unpleasant ward I once had, whom I rather disliked. I thought he would sympathise with me when I related how delicately I had got rid of him and sent him adrift when it did not suit me to keep him any longer. Would you believe it, Rimbolt wasn't at all sympathetic, but asked what had become of my ward's money! Do take warning, Jeffreys, and avoid the bad habit of asking inconvenient questions. You have no idea of the pain they may cause. Mr Rimbolt's question pained me excessively. Because my ward's money, like himself, had gone to the bad. That would not have been of much consequence, were it not that I was responsible for its going to the bad. It was most inconvenient altogether, I assure you. It made me feel as if I had behaved not quite well in the matter; and you know how depressing such a feeling would be. Still more inconvenient at the time when I had this talk with Rimbolt about six months ago, I had just come back from America with my finances in not at all a flourishing condition, so that if even I had been disposed to refund my ward, I could not have done it. Happily he was lost. It was an immense relief to me, I can assure you.

"Two months ago my finances looked up. I had news that some of my Yankee speculations were turning out well, and I unexpectedly found myself a man of means again. Rimbolt, who certainly has the knack of making ill-timed suggestions, proposed that that would be a good opportunity for making good what properly belonged to my ward. I urged in vain that my ward was lost, and that the money properly belonged to me as a reward for the trouble I had had in the matter. He actually insisted that I should deposit with him, as trustee for my ward, the full amount of what belonged to him, with interest added to date, promising if by any unfortunate accident the fellow should be found, to see it came into his hands. One's obliged to humour Rimbolt, so I did what he wanted, and that's how it stands. If ever this unprofitable ward turns up, he'd better keep his eye on Rimbolt.

"There, you see, Jeffreys, that's just a little anecdote to show you how easy it is, by being inconsiderate, for one person to make another uncomfortable. But now tell me how you like Cumberland. You must be quite a mountaineer by this time."

Jeffreys admitted he was pretty good, and had the tact to suit his humour to that of his guardian, and not refer further to the lost ward or his money.

Mr Halgrove stayed two days, and then departed for the Great West, where it is possible he may to-day carry a lighter heart about with him for his latest act of reparation.

Before the trio at Wildtree returned to London, Jeffreys, greatly to Percy's terror, asked leave to go for two days to York. The boy seemed still not quite sure that he had got back his friend for good, and highly disapproved now of putting the temptation to "bolt again," as he called it, in his way. However, Jeffreys "entered into recognisances" to come back, and even offered to take Percy with him on his journey. The offer was not accepted, for Percy knew Jeffreys would sooner go alone. But it allayed the boy's uneasiness.

Jeffreys had much trouble to discover Mrs Trimble. Galloway House was still an educational establishment, but its present conductor knew nothing of the lady whose "goodwill and connection" he had purchased so cheaply two years ago.

Finally Jeffreys decided to call at Ash Cottage. The walk up that familiar lane recalled many a strange memory. The bank whereon he had sat that eventful early morning was unchanged, and had lost all traces of Jonah's excavations. The railway embankment he had half thought of helping to construct was already overgrown with grass, and thundered under the weight of trains every few minutes.

Ash Cottage had not changed a plank or a tile since he last saw it. There were the same cracks in the wall of the shed, the same bushes on either side of the gate—nay, he was sure those wisps of hay clinging to the branches of the holly had been there two years ago.

As he walked somewhat doubtfully towards the house—for he could hardly forget under what circumstances he had last seen Farmer Rosher—he heard a boy's shout behind him, and looking round, perceived Freddy and Teddy giving chase.

"It is Jeff!" shouted Freddy. "I knew him a mile away."

"I saw him first. We knew you'd come back, Jeff; huzzah!"

"That tricycle wants looking to awful bad. Our feet touch the ground on it now, Jeff."

"Come on to the shed, I say, and put it right. How brickish of you to come back, Jeff!"

A long afternoon the happy Jeff spent over that intractable tricycle. It was past all repair; but no feat of engineering was ever applauded as were the one or two touches by which he contrived to make it stand upright and bear the weight of a boy. Before the work was over Farmer Rosher had joined them, well pleased at his boys' delight.

"Thee's paid oop for thy sin, lad," said he. "I did thee and the lads more harm than I meant; but thee's a home here whenever thee likes, to make up for it; and come away and see the missus and have a drop of tea."

From the farmer, who may have had good reason for knowing, Jeffreys learned that Mrs Trimble was comfortably quartered in an almshouse; and there, next morning—for there was do escaping from Ash Cottage that night—he found her, and soothed her with the news he had to tell of her poor prodigal.

"Well, well," she said, "God is merciful; and He will reward you, John, as He had pity on the lad. And now will you be sure and take a mother's blessing to the sweet lady, and tell her if she ever wants to make an old woman happy, he has only to come here, and let me see her and kiss her for what she has done for me and mine?"

That message he delivered a week later as he walked with Raby one afternoon in Regent's Park. It was not exactly a chance walk. They had both been up to the orphanage at Hampstead with the reluctant Tim and his brother, to leave them there in good motherly hands till the troubles of infancy should be safely passed.

It was Tim who had insisted on having the escort of both his natural guardians on the occasion; and at such a time and on such an errand Tim's word was law. So they had gone all four in a cab, and now Raby and Jeffreys returned, and with a sense of bereavement, through the Park.

"I will certainly go and see Mrs Trimble when next I am North," said Raby, "though I wish I deserved half her gratitude."

"You deserve it all. You were an angel of light to that poor fellow."

They walked on some way in silence. Then she said—

"Storr Alley is so different now, Mr Jeffreys. A family of seven is in your garret. You would hardly know the place."

"It would be strange indeed if I did not, for I too saw light there."

"How wonderful it all was!" said Raby.

"When Jonah was telling me about his good protector, John, how little I dreamed it was you!"

"And when you wrote this little letter," said he, showing her the precious scrap of paper, "how little you dreamed who would bless you for it!"

THE END